Magic of deduction
by Bonnyellen
Summary: Sherlock never had friends, never let his heart interfere with his head. John had forgotten how to trust, how to fall in love and be loved back. In a world of magic mayhem, the heart and the head get lost in the space between the two boys in 221B. Saving John Watson may be the most recklessly beautiful thing Sherlock has ever done, but it takes two people to be hnlock story
1. Chapter 1

The wind hit the shutters like a wave of rattling noise and shrieking glass, and the lights flickered and died momentarily. The dorm room was practically empty, save the one boy, head of dark curls bent over a book - and this was nothing unusual. He had shared a room with himself since he was 12, and preferred it. The time he had roommates was neither pleasant or long lived, no matter how many poor guinea pigs (aka first years) they had dumped with him.

Sharp, hooded green eyes swallowed each word of the dark arts textbook, but nothing seemed to sink beneath the surface, nor found its way to his mind palace. Sighing dramatically, he closed the book, rolling his eyes in agitation, despite there being no one around to see his performance, and made his way to the window. It was hard to focus, the noise of the storm crescendoing and the view of the lake surrounding the school, dancing ferociously with the low, dark clouds, crackling with lightning every so often. In all of his 6 years at the school, he had never seen the weather so ominous, but as far as he was aware, nothing could be deduced about the sudden change of climate... It seemed magic. Magic, again, was nothing unusual.

Sherlock, however, missed completely the only thing out of the ordinary. He barely heard Professor Hudson, housemother for Ravenclaw, shout up the stairs to the dorms; "Ravenclaw! Assemble in the Great Hall, to welcome the new first years! Hurry, most of the other houses have already taken there places in the hall... we don't want to start the year out late, do we?" but he did, unfortunately. Grudgingly, he turned away from the storm, so he didnt see the small boat rocking precariously over the waves. He walked into the Great Hall and sat by himself at the Ravenclaw table, head down. Like he had since he came to Hogwarts 6 years ago.

He didnt look up, not when Head Master took to the podium, or when a Slytherin girl whispered "freak" into his ear as she passed, or even when one of the house captains - who he couldnt remember the name of at present. Gavin? - walked past him with a short, blonde boy, and what he deduced was his sister, with her arm slung protectively around him, who Sherlock presumed were both new. He listened absently as the traditional, 'inspirational' speech leaked of the Masters lips and flooded the hall via microphone;

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" He paused, looking around us all, as if to let it sink in. All Sherlock noted, ocean eyes still trained on the wooden table, was that the Master's booming voice only emphasized the silence. It was deafening.

The scarping of a chair along the floor turned everyones head, like a gunshot against the quiet, and Professor Hudson tittered sympathetically as all eyes flickered towards the noise, moths to a flame. Sherlock raised his head to see the blonde boy, awkwardness literally bleeding out of him as he took a seat at the Hufflepuff table, colour blossoming on his cheeks. Even after most curious heads had turned back to the front, eargerly awaiting information about the stupid tourniment he couldnt have given more of a crap about, Sherlock stared at the boy, already knowing that he hadn't been discovered as a wizard at 11, had been kicked out of his fair share - maybe 5? 6? - muggle schools for dispruptive behaviour. He assumed this was because his two parents had died when he was young, evident from the lack of well fitting clothes and the picture in his left pocket, that couldve been considered as simply a piece of paper to a human eye, but to him he saw the photographic lamination and the fact that it hadnt been folded to fit into his back pocket (still thin against the jean material instead of bulking) suggested that it was a small poloroid photo. What was the point of having a tiny, laminated piece of paper? He could also tell this boy was unhappy with his house - understandible. The house of the loyal, phfttt- but that was mainly because he was put into a different house to his sister, who couldnt be considered loyal, as she turned to drink when difficulty showed its toxic head...

"And before I introduce you to our new first years and we begin the sorting," The booming, enhanced voice sliced through Sherlocks train of thoughts like a dagger, jarring him out of his reverie with a shudder "I would like to welcome Harriet and John Watson to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardary, houses of Gryfindor and Hufflepuff. I trust you will make them feel welcome." Chancing one more look at the boy - John - Sherlock looked up through thick eyelashes, and felt his stomach flip flop and his blood soar as he was met by a pair of startling blue eyes, honest, like stars in a morning sky...

John had never had a particularly easy relationship with water. His father had been a marine, so him, his mother and Harry had been relocated more times than he cared to count. It had never been much of a problem - neither he or Harry had ever made it to the end of the year without being kicked out for things beyond their control - until his father had drowned out at sea when John was 5. Dreams of waves crashing down on him from thousands of miles up, the pressure soffocating, claustrophobia and difficult relationships with everyone who reached out to him were all happy aftermaths of the death. When his mother died of cholera a year or so after, Harry had turned to drink, and John was diagnosed with ADHD. It was all put down to trauma, but things became unexplainable; John exploding locks of doors when he was frigtened to be in a confined space, Harriet contorting water into wine. It wasnt until John was 16 and Harriet 17, that the ministry of magic intervined, showing up at the orphanage and casually dropping the fast detonating, world stopping bomb that they were both of 'magical blood'.

So, two weeks later, John sat trembling, circled in Harry's arms as the waves drummed against the small boat, irregular and powerful, mirroring the shaking beat of John's own heart. The boat was unmanned, and nobody steered, but somehow it manouvered its way to the shore like a magnetic force. It rowed itself and docked perfectly without assisstance. It seemed magic. But it also didnt seem important to him, in amongst the grand scheme.

The relief that followed being on land was short lived, ice forming in the pit of John's stomach as he craned his neck upwards to look at his new school. His new home. The building was beyond impressive; turrets invading the sky and stained windows coloured with more shades than he believed existed. The doorway was at leats 10 meters high, and glowing candlelight bled through the crack the doors, illuminating half of Harry's face. It was contorted with so much... fear, pride, love, fear. Fear. Fear.

"Harry," He had meant to sound reasurring, but his voice was tainted with his own anxiety, trembling through with each syllable. Breathing hard, he tried again, steadier and gentler, "We're going to be okay now. We've made it this far, havent we?"

Her laugh was bitter and soft but she pushed open the door, wobbling inside on shaking legs. Haloed in the candlelight, she turned over her shoulder, blonde waves cascading down her back, pretending to be the kind of person who pretended not to feel fear.

"John, Im at a point where im just happy to have survived. Its enough for me to be proud im still here. There is no 'making it' for people like us..."

She quickly shut up when the unmistakable sound of rocketing footsteps sounded from the staircase above them. Dissapointment and resentment still roaring through him, John called up "Helo?" just as an older boy came racing down the stairs, brows knitting together in frustration.

"Sorry, shit im sorry. I completely forget about the two newbees amongst all the excitment! Im Greg, House Captain of Ravenclaw... Greg Lestrade." The boy had dark hair, cut close to his head and a kind face, rough and open. He smiled at them and his tie flashed blue, like the sea that crashed down, sinking his father's boat. Distrust bloomed in John's stomach, a reflection of the same unease tinting Greg Lestrade's stormy grey eyes.

"Im Harriet. This is John. Where should we take our bags... I hope it will be alright that we board here?"

"I'm sure it will for you, Miss Watson. I understand you are assigned to Gryfindr and there are few Gryfindor girls. As for bags, they are already in your common room." Sure enough, the two suitcases had disappeared from the entryway, as if they had disintergrated into nothingness. He then turned to John, biting his lip like a bad secret was fighting its way out of his mouth. "But I'm afraid you will have to talk to Mike Stamford, Hufflepuff house captain... your house right? I think there's no dorms for boys left. We're pretty tight for accomodation for boys ourselves. Only one dorm left and its not exactly... desirable... " Crashing waves. Unwanted. Locked in. Locked out. Spare part. ADHD.

Greg mustve seen all these thoughts pass over John's face, seen it like smoke on a mirror, because his face twisted into a plastered on smile and he led them down the corridor, towards the buzz of noise from what John coud guess was the hall, chatting while walking. Zoning in and out of the conversation, John kept up, sinking the fear to the pit of his stomach and smiled when appropriate.

"...not to worry. We'll find somewhere..."

"...Very exciting year..."

"...Gryfindor is brave, Ravenclaw is smart, Hufflepuff is loy..."

And suddenly, light flooded Johns vision, a hall so brilliantly lit it physically hurt, candles floating against the nightime ceiling and row upon row of teenagers, sitting at tables: eating, talking, laughing, throwing notes, waving wands, arguing and cursing. At the far end was a row of teachers, all older and interesting to look at. He stood, paralysed in awe as a oragami bird flew past him, inches from his nose, not really noticing that the man with the trimmed beard and funny spectacles had begun speaking. It wasnt until the pressure on his arms tightened significantly and he gave a small, accusing gasp, that he realised Greg was dragging him uselessly toward his own table.

He didnt even consider the noise that he would make, sitting down, until every pair of eyes was watching him, and only then did he understand the phrase 'rabbit caught in headlights'. There was nothing reassuring about the weight of Gregs hand on his shoulder, though he guessed it was a show of affection and a brotherly protection. John had never wanted or needed a brother. As more and more faces lost interest, turning their backs to John, he finally felt safe to take his seat. With a final whisper, breath tickling John's cheek, Greg Lestrade took his seat at his own table,

"Come find me after Professor Magnussen dismisses everyone. We'll sort out dormitories."

Feeling completely lost, he scanned the crowd at Gryfindor's table, a mess of red scarves and gold ties and kids whispering and laughing, for Harry. She was sitting next to a pretty girl, talking intently and smiling a little too wide, and she didnt even notice John. Bowing his head, he breathed so deeply his head spun, wondering if it was possible to feel claustrophobic in such an enourmous room, and closed his eyes briefly, images of suffocating waves burning into the backs of his eyelids. Even though he was completely alone at the table, Professor Magnussen blabbering on about something completely pointless, he couldnt shake the strangling feeling that he was being watched - which was insane, feeling that way in a bustling room overflowing with people.

When he opened his eyes, and looked up, he was only half surprised to be met by such intensely beautiful ocean green eyes from the table opposite. The boy staring at him, in almost medical fasination, was all sharp angles and enourmous, slanted cat eyes. His hair curled around his face, falling across his eyes, like a sweet contrast to his sculptured cheekbones and angular jaw line. He didnt look away when John met his eyes - if anything his face softened fractionally, like a panther lounging elegantly, examining its prey.

He was undesputidely beautiful.

Some part of John knew, deep down, he couldve watched the Ravenclaw boy all night, but like a cruel plot twist, he felt a hand tap his shoulder. Sighing mutely, he turned around, already willing Greg to leave;

"Look Greg, he hasnt even finished talking yet-" The face looking down at his was not the rough face of the Ravenclaw House Captain.

"Um, Hi, Im Molly," The girl standing behind him had waving, mousy hair, and eyes that reflected the soft candles when she smiled. And right now she was smiling down at John. "You're new to Hufflepuff right?"

Deciding mentally that he really did need a friend, John painted a smile onto his face and decided to like Molly.

"Um, yeah... I'm John" Molly laugh was musical and sweet. Birdlike. Like her.

"John Watson. I know. I wondered if you had any questions... or I mean... this is a difficult time to start what with the tournament... and I mean... you look a bit... you know... sick?"

He couldnt help the smile that played across his lips. No matter how hard he tried, he always did have the 'new kid' look about him.

"... and i heard about the problems with dorms... im sure you'll find a roommate!" Molly stuttered and spluttered like a rusty engine, so John cut her off like he would cut off the gas.

"Hey Moll? That boy-" The ravenclaw boy was looking down at the table again, like it might sprout wings at any second, dark curls catching the soft light like falling sundrops "who is that?"

Molly's eyes glassed over, her fingers clenched into fist when she looked over. It didnt take a genius to work out signs of unrequited feelings, and these feelings might as well have been broadcast via a flashing neon billboard.

"That's SHerlock Holmes... He doesnt get along with... well, anyone. Theres a good person in there though, I know there is."

He didnt know how to respond to that, so he sat besides Molly in comfortable silence, the solidarity of her arm against his, and absently listened to the Professor as he welcomed him and Harry, all the while, his glacial blue eyes trained on the mediteranean, ebony curls, and the long eyelashes hooding olive eyes, and the way his fingers intertwined in a praying position, his soft, defined mouth pressed gently against his two first fingers. Concentration furrowed Sherlocks brow and it made John smile subconciously. He stopped though, whenever he felt Molly's gaze, calculating and curious, on him.

When the new first years had all been sorted - John and Harry had been placed by one of the seniours named Mycroft beforehand - and were seated at their tables, crowded and bubbling with excitment, they were all dismissed back to their common rooms a house at a time. When Ravenclaw rose, splashes of blue colouring each of their dark uniforms, John muttered a half-hearted goodbye to Molly, and followed Greg out of The Great Hall. He was waiting by the door, chatting easily to a plump, easy looking boy, with glasses that kept falling of his nose. Slowly, John edged up to them, selfconcious of being younger, but both boys turned to him and smiled, Gregs smile distrustful and fake, but helpful. John still didnt know what quite to make of Greg Lestrade.

"John, this is Mike. Mike Stamford, house captain of Hufflepuff."

"Hi." Mike's tie was yellow, sickly but pretty. He loathed yellow.

"Hello, John. It's good to see you, and welcome to Hogwarts! Im afraid we're having a bit of a sticky situation..." John clenched his fists, focusing on the words and sinking the irrational feeling of resentment. "You see, we can't put you in with the first graders, but we don't seem to have any others dorms. There is one other option but-"

"I'm not going to find a dormmate, am I?" The small, blonde boy with burning blue eyes cut in, agitation clear as day in his voice. Greg and Mike shared a look, a silent agreement, before Mike placed a hand on John's shoulder, smiling down with curious amusment.

"It was just earlier today that another person said the exact same thing to me! And if Greg is happy for you to bunk with one from his house, I'd say we have found you a dorm? I'll have you bags sent down to Ravenclaw!" Mike trotted off, obviously pleased with himself. Though, the house captain of Ravenclaw looked none too pleased. A funny, pained expression flickered like a light across his face and shadows of curiousity and concern danced in his eyes, but when he looked down at John, he smiled a smile that didnt reach his eyes, nodded and led them down the gloomy corridor.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was in the middle of an experiment when the door opened. The smokey panther dancing through the air disintergrated as he lost concentration, light spilling through the door. He turned to see his house captain, stony faced and lips pursed, evidently none to pleased about the surprise visit to the top-most room in the Ravenclaw tower, the Hufflepuff house captain, a suitcase trailing behind him like a puppy and shiny eyes filled with curious excitment, ad behind both of them was the boy. Sandy hair close cut, cobalt eyes wide and nervous as he examined the room, and then curious when they came to rest on Sherlock. John. His body was compact and tense, dark trousers slung low on slim hips, broad shoulders flexing and tanned skin and why on earth did Sherlock have to actively make himself stop looking? Mike Stamford looked up at the still-shimmering air where Sherlock had been practising his patronus, and sighed, exasperation glittering in his piggy eyes.  
"Sherlock, how many times has Hudson asked you not to..."  
"What? Cast a patronus? Shoot the wall with an expelliamous curse? Work on potions that could potentially release harmful gases? Geez you'd think they were against fun!"  
His own house captain - who he really should learn the name of - clicked his knuckles and threw the case down on the only other bed in the dorm, and walked out, tugging Mike with him. As an afterthought, he turned over his shoulder and muttered "You boys play nice... Try not to freak out if he starts exploding things with his mind, John!"  
And then the door closed behind them and Sherlock regarded his new dormmate. John Watson stood, looking at his shoes, blonde hair falling over his forehead like waves breaking the shore, eyes looking everywhere but him.  
"You're not a first year. Hampstead College or Baker Street High School?" John eyes flickered up, suspicion like a knife burning behind the blue of his eyes.  
"Baker Street High. How did you-"  
"Oh, don't be simple. You obviously came from london because you got a taxi here. Yes, a taxi, you have change in your pocket - £4.35, if im not mistaken - which is the perfect amount of change to get from either Baker's Street or Liester Square to Kings Cross, and judging by how many schools you've been kicked out of - orphanages as well no doubt. Were you 4 or 5 when you militarty father died? Explains the claustrophobia and trust issues- its not surprising you go to school on the same street you live. You couldn't have drove. You're too young, and despite your sisters alcohol problem, she cares to much about you to drive you anywhere under the influence, and in the Hall her alcohol level seemed at the point of only just wearing off, so predictably, when you were making your way to the station, she was still quite drunk. Yes, she does care too much, otherwise she wouldnt have kept looking over to check on you during the feast in The Great Hall..."  
As Sherlock spoke, John mentally noted that when he was in full flow, his eyes glowed and his features softened. His voice was deep and raspy, like he'd just finished smoking. It sent shivers around his body, shivers he desperately tried to control.  
"That was... really amazing" John breathed, making his way to his new bed, and flopping down, eagerly looking up, but Sherlock held up an impatient hand, waving the compliment away.  
"...Not. Done. You befriended Molly Hooper, who is also a londoner, and her familarity didnt alarm you. On the cotrary, you two seemed...overly friendly..." his voice hitched and he put it down to excessive talking without a breath. Nothing more. When he spoke again his voice came out softer, almot as a purr; "and this eliminates all the dodgy areas of London such as Camden town, and again directs my suspicions to central London. Somewhere that cost about £15.65 in a cab to get to Kings Cross."  
Short of breath and blushing cheeks, Sherlock turned to John, and was surprised to be met with such awe-filled eyes, looking up at him through long, curling, golden eyelashes.  
"Really, really amazing." His smile lit up his whole face, pale eyes twinkling.  
"That's not what most people say..."  
"What do most people say?"  
"...Piss off!" Sherlock sat down next to John on the bed, silence blanketing them, like an awkward embrace. Then before they knew it, they both fell back against the bed, laughter shaking through them, the heat of John's breath tickling Sherlock's cheek. As the seriousness began to creep back into John's eyes, he sat up, taking the smaller boy with him. They sat regarding each other, laughter still crinkling his sea-green eyes at the edges.  
"Sherlock, today I have seen a auto-pilot row-boat, floating candles and a projection of the night sky. I've seen kids casting spells on paper to make it fly, and tons of food appearing from thinair..."  
"...your adorable simple mind will get used to it..."  
"...I've been labled as loyal and sorted into a house by a HAT, and told that the forest to the west of the school is swarming with deadly, mythical beasts! And none of that impresses me more than the fact that you got all that from the fact I had £4.20 in my pocket-"  
"Was it only £4.20? Damn-"  
"-but, Sherlock, if you say anything to anyone about Harry's drinking or my parents, know that no amount of magic will stop me." There was such intensity in his soft, honest voice, that when Sherlock turned, he took John's hand, electricity sparking from his fingers to his heart. He contemplated how ordinary people convey honesty and affection, but his chest was fluttering and his body was shaking. He snatched his hand back, avoiding the hurt painted across John's eyes. He stood up, slinking across the room with cat-like grace, picking up the violin strewn across his own bed, and rested it on his shoulder, the wood cool under his cheek. Instead of playing though, he turned back to the mesmerising, golden boy still sitting in exactly the same position and spoke as gently as he could;  
"John...I would never... I wouln't do that to you. I don't have friends. But... I'd like to try?"  
Then, he turned away, closing his eyes and crushing down all the unnecessary feelings with the knowledge the caring wasnt an advantage, and let his fingers play across the strings absently. John watched Sherlock, how his hair twisted and caught the light as he moved with the music, and the way his back muscles flexed and tensed under his purple nightshirt as he played, and John told himself that he hadn't looked down further below his slim waist. He lied.  
The lulling, beautiful mosic washed over John, like soft waves, nothing to fear, and he closed his eyes and realised he hadn't felt so... well so comfortable in so long. 'Funny,' thought John, irony seeping into his mind 'That you feel safer in a presence as chaotic as Sherlock Holmes'?' But telling the mental voice to shove it, John clambered into his new bed, facing the wall but strangely aware of the tall, angular boy with the raven hair and lilly-white skin and cheekbones watching him as he played his violin with expert fingers.  
"I know Sherlock. I... I trust you. Goodnight." And he fell asleep, violin music orchestrating his dreams.

It had been 2 weeks since John had moved to Hogwarts, and started bunking with Sherlock Holmes, and so far this is what he knew about his dormmate; first, he wasnt a morning person - not a grumpy morning person either - he just didn't function until the sun was high in the sky. He murmered sleepily, nonsense that bought laughter to John's lips, and flopped arround like a sack of potatoes. Second, he didn't have any other friends, and the people in his classes tended to be outright rude. Third, as far as John knew, he had never had a relationship, but he prefered not to dwell on it. Fourth, he could tell a dark arts teacher by a scruff on his tie, and a wandmaker from his left thumb, and we was stunningly, mesmerisingly brilliant...a sentiment John had expressed in every form. Fifth, he was the most arrogant, self-involved bastard John had ever met, let alone cared for.

They only had one class together - Defence against the dark arts - and had already occupied a space at the front of the class. Both their grades were soaring and John adored the fact that he had never once asked Sherlock to be his lab partner... it had been set in stone from the first class. They sat with Greg - who John had warmed to like a bloody sunbed once he had realised how much he loved Molly - who was constantly asking for help indirectly. There was only one other group of classes John shone in; the healing classes. Herbology, alchemy and care of magical creatures. He took all these classes with Molly, who was as clever as she was ditsy, and the only person at Hogwarts who knew that John had wanted to be a doctor when he stil lived in the muggle world. He couldnt tell what school someone went to by the change in their pockets, but he wanted to save lives, and he was happy to be shadowed.

The morning had started out like morning dew; beautiful but cold. It was one of the few mornings John had woken up first, woken to silence instead of music. With a feline stretch, he got up and looked around for a pair of jeans, bathing in the soft, gold light seeping in through the crack in the curtains, and tugged on a moth bitten, oversized jumper. Dust was always gloss coating the dorm, and this morning it sparked in the air like fireflys.

It took John over a minute to work out that Sherlock's bed was empty.

He had always loved the days when he woke up first, when he could watch the dawning light cast shadows over Sherlock's face, eyelashes long and curved and catching the sun like teardrops, and he felt safe. Not embarrased. Not like when he had accidently brushed hands with him in Defence Against the dark Arts, elecrtrical sparks flying round his body, and felt the heat in his cheeks, colour blooming like a tattle-tale, and seen the look of confusion and panic in Sherlock's ocean eyes.

So, on that frosty, Wednesday morning, the feeling of safetly and happiness iced over in his stomach. Stepping out the door, hair matted and sleep clouding his eyes, John stumbled down the stairs into the Ravenclaw common room. Despite the golden scarf wound round his neck, and the yellow lining on his sweater, John had been accepted in the Ravenclaw dorms, which didnt sit well with him. He felt like a charity case, like the house might as well have adopted a poor, starving puppy. The elegant, high-ceiling room was made up of two sofa's and a love seat positioned symmetrically around a open fireplace, one single arched window on the west wall, which faced the mountains past the forbidden forest where the sun sets between the peaks.

On the closest sofa, John saw the back of Gregs dark head, and from the way he shifted and fiddled with his sleeve, anyone could tell he was fighting pride and nervousness. In the love seat, a girl wrapped in a emerald tie lounged, liquid eyes calculating. She was pretty, coffee skin and dark waves that made John think of the sea at night. He noted how her fierce, black eyes sparked when she looked at the Ravenclaw housecaptain, and wondered, stupidly, if anyone's eyes softened when they looked at him. Neither noticed John stumble in, blue eyes cloudy and curious.

Dotted across the room were students of all ages, some John recognised as writers for the school newspaper, like Kitty Weasley, other house captains and even some teachers were perched on the mismatched furniture. Covering himself in a shadowy corner of the common room, John watched the meeting unfold. Everyone seemed to be directing questions at Greg and the slytherin girl, shooting them back and forth like gunfire.

"Can these events be linked?" A boy in one of the seat ask, eyes suspicious.

"And, Sally, if they are, how?"

The raven-haired girl - Sally - gave Greg a sidelong look, inquisitive, like she was asking permission to answer.

"All the victims appeared to have been petrified by unknown causes and all are in the hospital , um..." Her voice was confident, almost brutal, tremouring through John. "We haven't found a connection yet, but we have some of the most qualified wizards for dealing with this kind of...incident on the case."

The blazing fire erupted with a puff of smoke, billowing upward like a throaty cough, sparks flying in every direction. A voice, distorted against the crackling flames spoke one single word, recognisabe to only someone who knew that raspy, deep voice better than their own.

"Wrong." The fire spluttered and died, like the Hogwarts express, squeking to an inelegant stop. Then the question's started.

"It just said wrong-"

"what does it mean-"

"What's wrong-"

Greg's voice sliced easily through the mess of voices, cool and collected, but it didnt take SHerlock holmes to deduce that Greg knew who was behind this outburst.

Sherlock Holmes.

"One more question...ah, yes, Kitty?"

"What if these aren't self-afflicted accidents? Serial occurences...?" The girl smiled like she enjoyed the thought of 3 people hospitalized, petrified. John remembered reading about it. 3 students, found in unexplainable places, petrified; a girl in the dungeons, bruises decorating her cheek. A boy, only a first year, out on the quiditch pitch, a empty, sealed bottle clutched in his knuckles and a older girl, up in the tower, but with nothing of interest on her. He had thought it was funny, but dismissed it as exam stress or relationship problems when the dark arts teacher discovered they had all taken a pill, with magical properties designed to numb the senses and hold time for whoever takes it, until they are ready to wake up.

Kitty's voice rang through the air, like a bell echoing everyone's thoughts;

"And if they aren't self-afflicted, could this be the work of a dark wizard or witch, Lestrade?" Tension rippled through the air. Kitty smiled excitedly. Greg's eye twitched. John clenched his fists. "And how can we protect ourselves?"

"Well, don't get yourself petrified." Sarcasm literally glosscoated Greg Lestrade's voice, which he was rewarded for with a subtle nudge from Sally.

As if on cue, the fire snapped and whined like an angry dog, and the silky, crackling, mutilated version of John's dormmates voice hissed through the flames.

"You know where to find me."

With a quick nod at Sally, indignant and a little hurt, though she masked it well, Lestrade was up and out of the common room, John hot on his heels, slinking behind like a shadow, and halfway to the dorm rooms by the time anyone else had even turned away from the dying fire.

It had been two weeks since Sherlock had got a dormmate. So far, here was what Sherlock had deduced about John Watson; first, he had a death wish. He was strangely atrracted to danger and this much was evident from the way he played quiditch. He had been selected for the team almost straight after his first flying lesson, and due to his slightness, he had been selected as seeker. He flew like a maniac. Second, he had serious trust issues - everyone adored John, quite right too, but he never opened up to anyone, except to Sherlock - and though he would never admit it, the way he trusted Sherlock made him feel special, a piece of the puzzle. Third linked in to second; John had so many girlfriends, even Sherlock had trouble keeping up, and the nights that John didnt come home were like hell for him, jealous and aggitated as a tiger in a cage, lying in the empty room and hoping helplessly that this wouldnt be the night John opened up to someone that wasnt him. Fourth, he was in the wrong house. Loyal, yes definately, but brave beyond comparison, and if the professors could see past the pyscosomatic claustrophobia and aquaphobia, they could see the fearless way he stood up to the people who made fun of of Sherlock, or the way he flew round the quiditch pitch faster than a sparrow or even how he hid himself. It takes more courage to hurt yourself than to put others in the firing line, and hide your emotions so they don't wound the people you love.

Fifth, he had made Sherlock's life the most incredible hell since he arrived. I before E, excpet after C, Mycroft had always warned him. Head before heart, except for the smart. He had never understood what his older, unaccessible brother had meant by that until John Watson had looked straight through his cold exterior with lightning eyes, the colour of the sky after a storm. The way he tilted his head back when he laughed, jawline exposed and sunkissed. The sound reminded him of wilting flowers and muddled his train of thoughts, blurring the edges of his mind palace, which had always been his clearest place. He had never been one to let his heart interfere, tried not to read people or understand, but he found himself wanting to cut right down through John's walls, know what was troubling the perfect blue water of his eyes and help him.

And he hated it.

5 day's ago had been John's first quiditch game, a mess of yellow and green scarfes and ties, screaming thousands and broomsticks whistles through the air in an blur of excited adreniline. Sherlock had watched from the crowds with Mary, another Ravenclaw and John's current girlfriend, short blonde hair curling in the wind, blowing over enormous silvery-green eyes brimming with nervousness as the game began. 'She really is pretty' he thought, appaled by the level of resentment bubbling through him. A deafening roar erupted through the crowd as the ball went soaring through the goal like a wingless bird. Anderson, the slytherin scorer sneered as the the Hufflepuff keeper plummeted to the ground, thrown of his broom by the impact of the ball, and crumpled in a cloud of sand. Sherlock knew he wasn't badly hurt - a few cracked ribs maybe, but nothing unfixable - but still felt the urge to hijack the dark haired, burly captain's broom.  
"Hey," Mary was practically screaming in his ear to be heard over the animalistic eruption of noise "where do you think John is? I haven't seen his broom since the game started... or the snitch for that matter?"  
As if on cue, a flash of gold rocketed out from bellow the stands, followed momentarily by a blur of focused, pale, blue eyes and windswept blonde hair, a billowing cape blowing behind John as he raced after the golden snitch, the slytherin keeper hot on his heels. Sherlock craned his neck, anxiousness rising the higher John flew into the air.  
Until finally, the clouds enveloped them.  
After what seemed like forever, the rest of the game a blurry haze around them, the blanket of clouds spat out a figure. He was falling out of the sky, to fast to be in control. When the sickening realisation hit him, it felt like a ton a bricks was pressing down on his lungs and he forgot to breath. All he could do was watch helplessly as John, unmoving and unconsious, raced toward the ground, like he was flying...only towards a more permenant destination. Mary was shattering his ear drum, screams begging him to help, to do something, and mindlessly he grasped in his pocket for his wand. The cool, black, elegant curve of the wood fit into his palm as perfectly as a jigsaw, and absently he flicked it out annd pointed it to the plummeting bundle.  
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"  
A liquid, silver-blue panther, dangerous and beautiful, twisted and danced in the wind across the pitch, into the path of the John Watson commet. As Sherlock's patronus and the falling boy collided, John was wrapped, engulfed, in the silky, metalic light, distorting both creatures as they fell, wrapped together like a hug. When the ground rushed to meet them, the last thing Sherlock saw - though he would deny it mercilessly - was the melted-metal shimmer of the panther's eyes, cold and understanding. Then John was alone, sprawled across the floor like a paint splatter, eyes fluttering open, hand clenched around a small, golden ball.  
"John Watson has caught the snitch. Hufflepuff wins!"  
He and Mary raced down to the pitch, the gravel turning unoticed to sand, and Sherlock fell to the floor beside the blonde boy, gentle blue eyes blown wide with shock, blood trickling from a cut decorating his forehead like rain on a window, but - much to Sherlock's relief - no other injuries. He had saved him. That didn't mean he cared, he reminded himself. But he wasn't quite sure who he was trying to convince.  
"Sherlock..." John's lips moved, but the words were so soft no one but the two boys, shaking on the soft ground heard, the world around them a mess of voices and movement. Sherlock cupped John's cheek in his hand, his fingers brushing his hair gently off his scraped forehead, ocean eyes intense and curling dark hair ruffled and wild, like a panther, falling in waves over his lilly-white skin. His trembling knuckles brushed over John's jaw, the smooth, golden curve of his skin, and thanked all the stars for the pulse in his neck that drummed faintly against his palm. Eyes the colour of diamonds blazed with intensity, and up close they were almost white, flowing like liquid mercury, watching Sherlock's every move like he might disintergrate in a explosion of silver light like his patronus  
Then people fell around them like raindrops - nurses, players, spectators - slapping John on the back or checking him over for injuries, holding the snitch up in the air like a trophy and cheering. With a final, desperate grasp for the warmth of John's hand in his, Sherlock was pushed back through the crowd to the edge of the field, a discraded piece of trash, waiting. He watched the hundreds of buzzing students, wondered if somewhere at the centre of the cluster, John was kissing Mary, and shuddered.  
"You remind me of my dad..." Molly Hooper, quite and smiling, looked up at him with sad, coffee coloured eyes that seemed to old for her face. He didnt turn to face her, afraid of how much she would read off his face. "He's dead, you know, cursed. No, I'm sorry, I didnt mean-"  
"Don't make converstaion Molly, it's really not your area." His husky, cool voice was tinted with a warning tone. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have, but Molly battled on like it was her own personal mission;  
"When he was dying, he was always happy. He was lovely... I saw him once, when he thought no one was watching. He looked... sad. You look sad," her eyes drifted out towards the crowd "when you think he's not watching." A soft pressure warmed his palm, fingertips brushing against his knuckles. He looked down, but her hand was already sliding out of his grasp, like trying to hold onto running water. A knowing, affectionate smile played across her lips, but never quite reached her eyes, before she turned and skipped into the crowd of celebrating quiditch fans, all trimmed in the yellow of their house. If ever there was a person who could be described as loyal, Molly Hooper was a true Hufflepuff.  
He didn't fit in here. Or anywhere.  
Not among the loyal, or the brave.  
Ice crystalised in his stomach, crushing the feeling of aloneness and affection. His chin lifted, shadowing any betraying emotions dancing across his deep green eyes. He wound the blue scarf around his neck - the image of the same electric blue, the colour of John eyes, catching the light, hooded by curved, golden lashes, burning into his eyelids - and remembered who he was.  
Alone is all he had. Alone protected him.  
He turned on his heel, back toward the spiralling towers of Hogwarts, long robe swirling in the wind as he walked away, completely unaware of the electric blue eyes following ever step he took.  
/

"Where?"  
The sound of footsteps in the corridoor - obviously Lestrade's when you considered shoesize, gate, height, weight and speed, which Sherlock did - shattered his reverie like smoke on a mirror, and Lestrade burst through the door, overly anticipated. Flustered, he lent on the doorframe, panting like a wild dog, whilst Sherlock rose from his chair in one graceful, fluid movement and was standing in front of the older, bigger boy with all the inferior respect of an emporer, proud and focused. His eyes were narrowed, deductions blooming behind narrowed eyes.  
"Where?"  
"The coridoor outside the Gryfindor common room. That stunt you pulled in the meeting-" A vein throbbed in Lestrade's forehead, tense anxiety pulsing through his bloodstream like a drug, unnerving shadows flickering in hooded, dark eyes as he met the younger boy's intense glare directly, before lowering his gaze back down to his shoes. With a smirk, Sherlock cut him off, uninterested.  
"There's something different about this one. You wouldn't come to me if something wasnt off about this one?"  
"Well, you know how none of them left any sort of sign? This one left a note..."  
AT which point, John who had been listening intently from the other side of the doorframe, stepped into the hazy, dusty light of 221B dorm, appearing casual despite the knots weaving in his stomach as Sherlock's eyes followed him across the room.  
"Ah John, your back. Where were you last night?" Clenching his fists, knuckles a snowy white, Sherlock shivered as the feeling of cold detatchment spread through him like ice, refusing to let the hurt anger show in his voice.  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well, you were asleep, so I fazed out. When I came back from my mind palace, your bed was empty, but the sheets were still warm and the door unlocked; you left in a hurry. When I woke up this morning you were back in bed, but you had socks on - dirt on your heel, so I know that you went outside somewhere, and didn't just have cold feet. I would've asked you earlier, but by the time I came back from getting my tea, you were already gone - and judging by your coordinated timing with Lestrade and your hovering the doorway for the last few minutes, my guess is you were at the meeting about the petrifications?"  
"Speaking of which," started Lestrade "will you come and see? You see, you're the brightest wizard of you age." Behind the sarcasm colouring Lestrade's voice, was only wounded pride, desperation and affection.  
"Yes, but not with you. We will follow. No one from Ravenclaw will work with me... I need John."  
And on so many levels, that was the most honest thing Sherlock had ever said.  
He stared passively after Lestrade, as he closed the door behind him, hands clasped around the smooth, black wood of his wand and eyes focused and emotionless. The click of the lock echoed through the silence of the room. John watched Sherlock, silence suffocating, until he noticed the gleam begin to sparkle in those alight, green eyes, crinkling at the corners as a smile lightened his whole face. He clapped his hands - spinning and jumping, wand clattering to the floor - before reaching for John, lacing their fingers together and pulling them round together, spinning faster and faster, all the while chanting;  
"4 petrified, and now a note! Oh, I feel like it's christmas!"  
Laughter, it seemed, was contagious and too quickly, the boys were falling over each other, whirling manically, in fits of giggles - interupted by half-hearted comments like 'It's a crime we can't giggle' and 'Sherlock, timing'. Stumbling forward, John grasped the back of Sherlock's neck to steady himself, fingers weaving around his soft curls, and froze when he felt the taller boy's arm slip around his waist, holding John against him. His hand rested perfectly between John's shoulder blades, where his wing's would've been if he had been an angel - not that Sherlock deluded himself with stupid theories of angel's and life after death. There was magic, and then there was desperate beliefs of unanswerable questions. The laughter dried on the two boy's lips, as John turned his gaze up to Sherlock's, liquid eyes inches from his, softer and vulnerable.  
The walls that Sherlock had built around himself fell.  
John's eyes were enourmous, and impossibly blue, but up close they didn't resemble water, but more of a deep pool of electric light, flecks of gold - like stars in a pale sky - bloomed around his pupil. His breath tickled Sherlock's cheek, and they were so close but neither of them broke apart, Sherlock's thumb tracing circles on the palm of John's other hand, a shy smile playing across his lips.  
"I love to dance" Sherlock whispered into John's ear, so quiet it could've been mistaked as a breath.  
"I... Sherlock,I... People will talk."  
"People do little else John." A smirk broke across Sherlock's face, as he slowly began to spin the two around, fingers still locked together.  
"I can't. I just can't, Sherlock..." his voice faultered, his eyes clouding and his fingers unravelling from his hair. The heat from his body clung to Sherlock, even after it was gone, but he didnt feel it, a numb coldness filling him up, eyes hardening and closing like a cork in a bottle. John's blue eyes fell to the ground, so many words trying to rush of his tongue but bitten back; "...dance, I mean. I can't dance."  
And with that, the walls fell over Sherlock's eyes, unreadable and dangerous as the sea, shutting John out once again. In the few steps that they took in breaking apart, miles and lifetimes and futures formed between them. But all John felt was the cold. And he felt so heavy, like the places where Sherlock had touched him, his skin had morphed into lead. His heart felt like lead in his chest.  
Then Sherlock turned on his heel, wrapping his scarf around his neck, and walked to the door. In the doorway, he turned, haloed in the landing light, eyes shadowed and slightly manic, not that John bothered to look up from the floor.  
"Why does it bother you? What people think of me? That makes no sense."  
When the door clicked shut behind Sherlock, John raised his chin, clenched his fists, closed his eyes and willed himself to stop feeling. Eyes drying and fingers trembling, he leant against the door, sliding down it till he was sitting with his head in his hands. Mentally, he added Sherlock to the list of people who had left him.  
Leaning against the other side of the door, Sherlock - without wanting to - did the same.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, um, Greg?" Greg whipped around and nearly headbutted Molly in the process. She was always amazingly light on her feet, and he felt his stomach hiccup when he turned round to find a pair of gentle, brown eyes inches from his face.

"Shit... sorry! I scared you... well I say scared, sorry... I shouldn't have crept up... and you look - sorry - a bit preoccupied...sorry."

"Hey, Molly? Stop apologising." He smiled, but she didn't see. She never did.

"Sorry... no, that wasn't... ok."

Greg remebered Molly as a first year; skinny and clumsy, with eyes too big for her face. He remembered her at the winter ball in her fourth year; a pretty black dress with a silver hem, sparkling in the white light and unmatched earings. He remembered her when she had came back, after spending the summer with her muggle family; hair a shade lighter - honey coloured - and falling in curls over her face as she talked easily to the new boy.

Molly had never even noticed Greg until John had introduced them, and even then he seemed like a dull star next to Sherlock - a supernova. She didn't remeber the face of the boy who had picked up her books for her when Irene Adler - a slytherin girl - had knocked them out her hands. She didn't remember the name of the boy who had given her his only potions textbook so she could pass, even though he was failing. Or the way that boy had looked at her when she twirled and stumbled and jiggled her way through the winter ball. Greg had been a constant wallflower in her life.

"It's alright. What can I do for you, Molly?" His cheeks felt too hot, and his pulse was soaring around his body, but his voice came out impassive, unaffected despite his somersaulting stomach. I can get away with this, he thought, I can pretend not to care...

"Why do you do that? Say my name, every sentance you say, it's like you have to remind yourself who I am?"

Or not...

"I... I do remember your name Moll... sorry. I, ur, am a bit busy right now. Got a... er... incident that needs looking at." Kicking himself for sounding like such an idiot, colouring darkening his cheeks, he lifted up his chin and turned, walking in the direction of the Gryfindor common room, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding when he heard Molly jog after him. The walked side by side in silence, until Molly finally interupted his train of mental self-abuse.

"That was rude of me. I can be a bit abrupt with people I don't really know," Greg wanted to tell her that they had known each other for year, but bit down on his tongue. Hard. "But, I actually needed to talk to you. I heard about the 4th girl. The one who was petrified... and I heard there was writing on the wall, were they found her. I want to know what it said."

"Molly, I don't-"

"Please? I think I know something... one of the ghost's in the girl's bathroom told me something. A name. A place. But I can't be sure until I see the note." Determined clarity burnt in Molly's bright eyes, disguising her trembling heart drumming in her ears, and the crushing fear that things at Hogwarts were about to change for the worse. For the first time since Greg could remember, he looked at Molly and didn't see someone who needed protecting, but someone who was smarter than she let on, and was someone who he would be happy to fight beside. Brave. Clever. Passionate. Loyal.

"Please, Greg. For me?"

The uproar that followed after Greg turned up at the scene of the accident with Molly was a small price compared to the way her face lit up like a star when he agreed.

John caught up with Sherlock by the doors of the Great Hall, keeping pace with the taller boy, shoulder to shoulder. The silence was booming.

The corridor where the accident had happened was too brightly lit, a sharp blue illumination stinging the back of John's eyelids, and all around him people moved wordlessly about in matching blue overalls and cast curses that made hidden things noticable. It seemed alien and everything about it set John's tongue to his teeth, but Sherlock weaved in between the rabble like a fish going with the current. Completely in his element.

Greg was lounging in a doorframe, the blue of his coverups emphasizing the veins in his neck, straining with stress. He was talking intently to a professor - Professor Sholto, John's 'Magic in combat' teacher - and the slytherin prefect with the caramel skin and dark curls like liquorish. As they walked in, she turned, eyes blazing like burning coals when she saw, and stomped across the room, professors and students parting for her.

"What are you doing here, freak? Professors and prefects only-"

"I. Was. Invited." There was no denying the glimmer of hurt in Sally's eyes, as they flickered over to Letsrade. John felt his lashing anger towards her dull a little inside his chest, understanding how her bitterness, like his repressed anger, was just a side affect to a lifetime of people letting her down. Sherlock, for someone who observed everything, didn't see very far beneath the surface.

"Now, Donovan, let me go and clear up your mess." A smirk played across Sherlock's face, tinting his voice with a snigger "Speaking of mess, Sally, have you seen the state of yourknees?" With that, he swept past her, and in a few elegant strides was beside Lestrade, still smirking, leaving a very lost John staring uncomprehendingly at Sally Donovan's knees. When he tried to follow Sherlock though, it was like an invisible barrier fell in front of him, with just a flick of Sally's wand.

"Uh, no. Who are you?"

"I'm with him... John Watson. His...ur, um... colleage?"

"Let him through, Donovan!" Lestrade bellowed across the corridoor, and with a sullen wave of Sally's wrist, the barrier fell. With a shy smirk in her direction, John shuffled past Sally, and jogged across the room to where Sherlock and Lestrade stood waiting in a closed doorway. Greg held out a matching blue overall to him, his rough face grim and anxious, his eyes shining with fear and confusion, like he'd found out some ba news he didn't quite understand. John took the overalls, before looking up at Sherlock, dressed in his black and blue robes, huffing impatiently.

"Are you not wearing them?" For that comment, John was rewarded with a look of demeaning amusement, like it was the stupidest and funniest thing Sherlock had ever heard, ocean eyes illuminated and burning with anticipation. When Letsrade and John were suited up and ready, with a small nod, Sherlock swung open the door, sauntering inside... only to walk straight into a wall of man. The boy standing in the now open doorway - tall, muscular and dark-haired with a face that made john think of a small rodent - looked down at Sherlock (which very few people could do) with a mixture of surprise and distaste clear as day across his ratlike face. Sherlock, however, recovering himself quickly and stepping away from the older boys chest, plastered a sarcastic smile all over his face, beautiful eyes cruel and contemplating.

"Ah, Anderson!"

"Now, this is a crime scene, I don't want it... contaminated." Anderson concluded with a sneer.

"Of course not." Subconciously, John knew he should move on, stop Sherlock from... whatever it was he as doing. He knew the way Sherlock's eyes sparkled in a sort of manic light when he was about do something stupid, and how his voice became silky and he picked up pace when he was about to make a deduction. He knew that it would piss off everyone and probably not end well, but still some part of John wanted to know what Sherlock had to say. Or maybe he liked the manic twinkle in Sherlock's gaze. Who knows? "Now Anderson, maybe it wasn't such a good idea to involve yourself with a girl from another house? Is it not going as well as you'd hoped? So sorry to hear-"

"Oh, don't act like you figured that out! Somebody told you!" roared Anderson, which only seemed to encoarage the bright-eyed troublemaker.

"Your deoderant told me."

"My deoderant?"

"Yes, it's for a man."

"Of course it's for a man! I'm wearing it!"

"So... is Prefect Donovan. Don't worry, I'm sure she just came over to study for your herbology project. But going by the state of her knees, it looks like she scrubbed your floor, too! But then..." With a look of mock confusion, Sherlock physically moved Anderson out of his way "...their are spells that could tidy your dorm for you." Sashaying past Anderson, Sherlock dissapeared into the crime scene, followed quickly by Lestrade, and yet again, John was left dumbfounded, lost and staring at Sally's knees. Then he stumbled into the room, Anderson's protests cut off as the door slammed shut behind him, and felt his blood turn cold in his veins.

Light's flashed blindingly around the 3 boys, illuminating the scene infront of them. Here's the first thing John noticed;

- The girl, probably a similar age to him, lay still and cold on the floor, fine, night-black hair falling wildly over her golden face. She was chinese, and had slanted, ebony eyes, open and blank.

- She was very pretty.

- There was no blood, and when the took her pulse, a vein beat lightly against his fingers. She wasn't dead. Petrified.

- She really was very pretty.

- Very, VERY pretty.

- There was a note scrunched into her palm; "Zhi" it said

When he looked closer, he worked out form her body temperature she must've been in this state for a good few hours. That she was heading towards the girls bathroom. And that no matter how pretty she was, he couldn't stop thinking about how soft Sherlock's curls had been, or how cool his breath had been on John's ear and how gentle his hand hand felt against his skin, until he couldn't even focus on the girl anymore...

Here's the first things Sherlock noticed;

- The scarlet writing splattering the wall.

- She was going in the direction of the toilets, but was facing the east wall, where a small, glass vent led down to the sewers (below the bloody note colouring the wall, about eyeheight), which was steamy, like hot breath had panted against it, but the air was cool.

- "Zhi" meant value in chinese.

- She had been writing her brother's name, not chinese. Yes, her brother, and he knew this because her books were all named, originally "Zhi Zhu", but the first name was croosed out and replaced with "Soo Lin"

- John kept looking at her.

- The bottom of her robe was damp, but it hadn't rained recently, and the only rooms with water on the floor were the toilets. But that was the direction she was headed in. Why would she be going back?

- She had been running when she had been attacked. Chased. There were different size footprints, bigger. They had turned around and left before they reached her.

- She had originally been a slytherin, but had got herself transfered into Gryfindor.

- John kept looking at her.

- The scarlet writing on the wall.

Thing's were about to change.

'THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAD BEEN OPENED"


	4. Chapter 4

"The chamber of secrets?" It was about the hundredth time Sherlock had said those 4 words in the past hour. Each time it changed; A question, a statement, an exclaimation. John's mind felt muzzy and hazy, like fog was bunging up the cogs in his brain, slowing it down. Sherlock sat opposite him, stray butterbeer foam sticking to his upper lip. It looked cute, in a sort of 'stop looking' way. The Leaky Cauldron was practically dead... most of the campus was - everyone safetly tucked away from the constant reminders of the 4 petrifications, and the looming, sinister presence lurking somewhere within Hogwart's walls. The sat alone, after Greg took Molly back to her dorm (just in case something happened), in a rather uncomfortable silence, trying to puzzle out the pieces. Though John's mind was in a slightly different place.

"Sherlock, can we talk about... what, urm, happened?" He looked up at the boy next to him, expecting the usual stoniness, and was met by a pair of green eyes so full of anger and desperation, he almost felt like a intruder.

"Nothing, John. Nothing happened."

"But..."

"No John. If you dont want to get hurt, dont let yourself feel. Dont care. Caring is not an advantage, especially not with me." He lowered his gaze and stood up, turning on his heel and striding out, long coat trailing behind. Then he was alone with his butterbeer. The air held a sudden chill, like a ghost was breathing down his neck.

He didn't even realise someone actually was until the hands clamped around his shoulders and pulled him backwards into darkness.

* * *

Snow crunched under Molly's boots, soft and perfect across the grounds. Around her feet, her robes were damp and her hair blew across her face, lips chapped and ears pink. Around 4 every afternoon, she skirted the forbidden forest, with a few apples in her pocket. She wanted to be back in time for Gryfindor annual bonfire night celebration. It was one of the only muggle traditions Hogwarts celebrated, but it was always fun, roasting marshmallows and singing around the enourmos bonfire on the quiditch pitch. She knew she had to hurry, if she wanted to make it on time. She practically ran down towards the line of trees. Two months ago, she had been down at the gamekeepers cabin, and heard a gentle whimper, like a baby crying. The night was beginning to settle over the trees, and she had been ready to turn and run back to the school, but the noise had melted her to her core, and she had gone looking. About half a mile into the woods, she had gotten completely lost, stumpbling through the shadows and over loose twigs. It was when she fell facefirst onto the soft, mossy ground that she first saw the hoof prints; so small and all over the place, like a foals first wobbly steps. Swallowing the fear spiralling up her spine, she followed the tracks to a hollow tree. Inside was a bundle of scrawny linmbs, slivery feathers and umproportioned, powerful wings.

Every day since, she had bought down apples and blankets to the orphaned hippogriff in the hollowed out tree.

She didn't tell anyone about him, afraid they would send him away, even though she could take care of him. He was so big now, and she still had a month or so before the christmas holidays... he would be strong enough by then to last a couple of weeks by himself... she was sure of it. Since she found him in september, legs had grown to amost the size of her, his eyes shone with a healthy light, and with his beak he could snap up a meal faster than Molly could say 'pizza'. But it wa his wings that took her breath away. Every day, he seemed to get healthier and his wings could now blow her backwards, silvery and fluid when they moved in the light, each of the feathers like ripples on water. He was so much stronger than the sickly, small foal she found cowering in the tree.

So she decided not to dwell on the fact that he couldn't fly... his mother dead before he could be taught. He would be fine. It would be fine. She would be-

"Um? My educated guess is that you're not out here to pick apples?" The sharp, husky voice cut through her reverie, and she span around so fast the apples in her pocket came around seconds after and whacked her in the stomach, momentarily winding her. Or maybe it was just seeing sherlock standing on the ledge above her, an apple in his grasp. He looked devastatingly handsome in his long robes, hair ruffled by the wind, ivory skin gowing in the white light of the frosty evening. In one elegant motion he jumped of the ledge and was infront of her, holding the fruit out.

"You dropped this." He smiled but the contained anger in his ocean eyes made her lose control of her lungs again. She realised then that she should be speaking but the words seemed to jam in her throat, so she just took the apple and lowered her gaze to her feet. For a few moment, the silence weighed down on the two of them. Then he cleared his throat; she looked up and his eyes had softened.

"I would strongly recommend you don't go into the dark forest tonight, Molly. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. And, um... I might need... some assisstance. Now."

"You? Need my help?" It came out more surprised than she intended, but it was still an improvement on insane or intorerably needy. The anger rose up in his eyes, and colour bloomed in his cheeks, with made her smile, a small secret smile he wouldn't even notice.

"Well, I found something at the scene yesterday, however it requires some more thorough experimentation by someone more... knowledgable upon the subject of animals."

"Well why didn't you just ask John? He takes care of magical creature too-"

"No." He hadn't meant to sound as harsh, but she flinched just the same. His green eyes burnt, like rivers of fire and his fists clenched, veins straining against his pale skin. "No. I need you." And like that, he was him again, hand raking through his dark curls, eyes alert and warm and so close to her his breath warmed her cheek.

Then he smiled and kissed her. It was soft and hesitant to start with, and Molly didn't know where to put her hands. She had thought about kissing Sherlock for so long, she thought she would know what to do with herself. When his tongue licked across her bottom lips, she shivered, subconciously raising her hand to tange in his hair, silky against her palm. The kiss deepened, and his hands grazed her body through her coat, her tongue sliding into his mouth to tangle with his, and she pressed her hand to his lower back and pushed them closer together. His teeth grazed over her lower lip, and she tasted the bitter, metalic flavour as a cut opened up. He seemed to taste it too, because all of a sudden he pushed back, leaving her cold and embarrased, a rosy blush creeping all the way up to her ears. His eyes flickered everywhere but her, and his breathing was ragged and heavy. She pulled her coat futher around her, the apples suddenly heavy in her pocket, and she remembered her hippogriff. It was too dark now, the hazy lights in the castle casting eerie shadows across the grounds, and she prayed he would be alright for just one night.

Sherlock looked up at her again and she felt herself drop on the inside when she saw the emotionless apology glitter in his eyes. She knew it hadn't meant anything; he had needed someone, and she had been available. She couldn't find it in herself to care.

She just wondered whether this had anything to do with John.

He moved towards her again, a sad smile across his face, that held so many lost opportunities and broken wishes. For the first time, Molly realised Sherlock Holmes might be more broken than anyone knew. Even himself. But still he smiled.

"I'm sorry. Let me walk you back. We will be late for the bonfire at the quiditch pitch. Remember, remember, the fith of November. Stupid muggle traditions, but still the house's like the celebrations. Let me walk you back." He held out a hand, translucent in the rising moonlight

"Sherlock..."

"Let me walk you back. Please?" She had never heard him plead. She never wanted to again. So she just gave him her hand.

It wasn't warm like Greg's hand was.

* * *

The hallways were practically empty, but Sherlock still felt claustrophobic and breathy, like he was drowning in empty space.

He was such an idiot. He deserved to be alone.

Everyone was down at the quiditch pitch, the soft hum of their singing wafting up through the open windows of the library. Molly was down there. Lestrade. John... probaby with Mary, holding her hand and kissing her. He bit down the unexpected angst welling up inside him and tried to focus on the word in the book. They swam before his eyes and he slammed the book shut with such a force the entire table shook, his empty mug knocked off the edge, smashing all over the floor.

"Piss!"

Bending down, he began scooping up the small fragments of china, scattered across the wooden floor. He had nearly retrieved all the pieces when he stopped, lifting his head above the table and scanning the motionless room, eyebrows knitting together. The silence seemed so much louder all of a sudden. He stared back down at the broken mug on the floor and began cleaning again, but then the noise came again. Footsteps, hesitant and gentle on the wood, and the glow of a lantern lit up the small alcove where Sherlock was huddled on the floor, surrounded by shattered china.

"Piss-" Sherlock muttered under his breath, not looking up, determined not to get caught in the restricted section again. Holding his breath, he crouched further behind the desk, and tried to shadow himself, hiding from the gleam of the light. But when he tried to maneuver himself, he wobbled, putting his hand down to steady himself right on a shard of the shattered mug. Pain laced through his hand and he jolted backward, falling and knocking over a chair. His back smacked the ground, and he choked on his own breath as it tried to rush out his lungs. The lantern was moving towards him, the light shadowing the holder, but Sherlock could tell he had been spotted, and he just couldn't care. He cradled his hand to his chest, red blossoming across the white of his shirt, and tried to sit up, the wind still knocked out of him.

A gentle hand pushed him back down as he tried to get up. Warm and affectionate.

"Sherlock, what in God's name...?"

John's electric blue eyes shone down with him, so full of concern and so beautiful. Beautiful. The word seemed so naturally fitting, like it was meant to describe John's eyes. His hands stroked over Sherlock's forearms, gently but determinedly keeping him on the floor, and he was so aware of Johns fingers lingering at his sides, before taking Sherlock's hand in his, uncurling his fingers to examine the cut.

"It's not so bad. Deep, but I dont think it'll need stitches... Are you alright?" His voice hitched on the last word, his eyes darting all over Sherlock's face, everywhere but his eyes. He wasn't alright. Not really. The soft curve of John's jaw tightened, obviously out of anxiety, and Sherlock didn't know whether he wanted to punch it or kiss along the curve. He wanted so much to deny any attraction but the way John's shirt rode up around his smooth torso made his finger twitch and his breath catch. He was smart enough to know what was good for him, but every time John spoke, his brain shut down.

"I'll live." He couldn't decide who he was convincing. Certainly not himself. John just sighed, like his answer had upset him, and heaved Sherlock up into a sitting position. John knelt by Sherlock's side, and gathered up the pieces of china, the muscles in his back flexing through his shirt and Sherlock had to actively stop himself from staring, so started to make small talk - not his strong suit.

"So um, " His voice sounded hoarse, his breath still slightly lost. "Aren't you supposed to be at the bonfire?"

John placed the pieces of china on the desk, standing up and offering a hand down to Sherlock. From that angle, John's face was contorted by the shadows of the soft light, his cheekbone more angular and his eyes dancing with golden shadows. His hand felt rough and strong in Sherlock's, as he pulled him up, so he was facing the taller boy. Sherlock decided it was just the light that made John's eyes look wet and sad... his probably looked the same. John breath tickled Sherlock's neck when he spoke, so soft it was almost a whisper.

"Aren't you?"

Sherlock laughed in spite of the situation and the pain spiraling through his arm.

"I don't really think im wanted down there.." John smiled, a real, honest smile that cut dimples into his cheeks and crinkled around his eyes, as he looked up at Sherlock through thick, blonde eyelashes that caught the candlelight like embers in a fire. His fingers still gently ran circles over the cut on Sherlock's palm, and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a small gasp at the proximity.

"Maybe not. But now I'm here, and I want..." _You_. The unspoken word hung in the air. John's eyes fell to the floor, a blush creeping up to his ears. Shivering with anxiety, Sherlock stepped closer and placed a hand on John's arm. The fabric of the jumper was soft, familiar and yet still such a new sensation, and he stroked up the other boys arm, over his neck to cup his cheek. As he caressed John's smooth jawline, he lift the smalled boy's face up to his. He waited until those intense, blue eyes were locked on his, and then he told him the big secret;

"Im not okay John. I don't know what i'm doing. You could go and be with Mary... you don't need this, you have no idea how to be with me... I'm not okay."

He stopped breathing as John leant forward and gently pressed his lips to his cheek. His lips lingered there, his finger ghosting across Sherlock's hips, everything hesitant and slow. Stiff and unsure, Sherlock fluttered about with his hands, holding back. The stupid thing was, was that he had only just kissed Molly, even if it had been forced and uncomfortable, but it felt different with John, like his body was on fire every time John's fingers brushed his skin, and he wanted to stop himself internally combusting by keeping his distance. John seemed to sense Sherlock's hesitance;

"You dont...?"

"No... no, yes oh god yes..." He felt himself tremble under John's touch.

"Relex"

Then John's lips were moving across his jaw and pressed against the corner of Sherlocks mouth, his hands gently sliding under his shirt and rubbing circles over his hip bones. Tension burnt through Sherlock, his fists gripping John's jumped much to tight and he could feel himself straining against the kiss.

"Relax..."

Then John's lips were covering Sherlock's and Sherlock let himself curl into John, pressing his lips harder against John and winding his arms around the other boys neck. A soft moan purred from John's throat, obviously pleased Sherlock was reciprocating, and he moved his hands futher up Sherlock shirt, skirting across his smooth torso, and winding their way to his lower back, just above his ass, to press their hips closer togetther. The feel of John's tongue tangled with his, and their hips pressed so close together made Sherlock shudder with anticipation, and he pulled gently on John's golden hair, exposing his throat. He tailed kisses down his neck, nipping playfully at the sensitive skin above John's collar, and was rewarded by a involuntary gasp. He bought his lips back down to John's, licking all over his bottom lip, and looped his fingers through John's belt hoops, pulling him closer still until there was no space between them, and he could feel each ragged breath John took. He felt John smile against his lips, spurring him on until his body and hands and lips reacted instictively. He felt his fingers run over John's stomach, lower still until he was fiddling restlessly with the flyers on John's jeans. Panting against Sherlock's cheek, John breathed out "Sherlock, not here." Then he was silenced by Sherlock's lips covering his once again, unable to deny himself another kiss. He's waited so long, and he couldn't mess this up. John's hands tangle in Sherlock's soft, dark curls and the heat of his body made Sherlock shiver. Their mouths fitted together like puzzle pieces, slanted slightly and tongues licking over each other. John's spine curled under Sherlock's touch and their bodies melted together seamlessly. It felt so good to be with someone like this. Sherlock's heart raced against John's, and suddenly they were kissing anymore, just pressed against each other, John's head tucked neaty into the crook of Sherlock's neck, his hands still tangled in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's hands pressed against his shoulder blade, where his wings should've been. And Sherlock didn't want distance anymore.

It was worth the fire.


End file.
